


It Only Takes A Taste

by aisydays



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: (as much as I could without actually doing any research), Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Compliant, Cooking, Could be read as queerplatonic or romantic, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Whatever floats your steampunk airship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aisydays/pseuds/aisydays
Summary: Zolf Smith may not be the best at talking about his emotions, but if there's one thing he does know, it's cooking.Or, four times Zolf used food as a way to express his feelings, and the one time he actually talked to Wilde about them
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2020





	It Only Takes A Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aibari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibari/gifts).



> This fic was written as part of the Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2020, as a gift for the wonderful aibari! All the prompts you gave me were absolutely amazing, and I wish I could have written something for every single one. Hopefully you enjoy this! Massive thanks to Piles Of Nonsense for organising the event as well, you guys rock!
> 
> The s-theme happened entirely by accident, until I noticed and decided to lean into it :')

  1. Sandwich



They had been working together for a month now. It wasn’t going terribly well.

The apocalypse, as Wilde was insisting on calling it despite (or perhaps because of) Zolf’s complaints, had certainly made for strange bedfellows. If of course by bedfellows, one meant two people living in the same safe house together and frantically trying to reach out to any allies the pair still had that weren’t missing, dead, or… worse.

Wilde glared at the stack of paper before him. The letters and reports piled on his desk seemed to taunt him, seemingly never decreasing despite the hours and hours of work he had been putting in. The words printed on them were swimming before his eyes, black and white swirls where letters should have been. His head was splitting with a pain so intense that every two minutes, his hand would find its way down to the cuffs, rubbing gently against them. It was a cruel reminder, one that carried memories of half-stuttered spells and illusions that would never dance through the air, but at least it reminded he was safe.

Sighing, Wilde leaned back in his chair. His arm reached blindly out behind him, groping around for the equally large stack of envelopes he knew were piled there. He flinched, however, when instead of the rough, familiar texture of the heavy parchment some of the Harlequins insisted on using – really only for dramatics rather than any practical purpose, which Wilde would usually be all for – he came across something cold, hard.

He whipped around in his seat to inspect this irregularity. When he caught sight of what was perched precariously atop the piles of paper however, even the exhausted poet couldn’t help but quirk his mouth in a small smile.

The cold surface had been that of a small porcelain plate, one he recognised from the cupboards downstairs. It was currently home to two thick slices of a dark brown bread – freshly made, judging by the smell wafting from them, and the fact that Wilde knew full well he’d used up the last of the previous loaf the last time he had eaten. Which, his stomach was now reminding him, was rather a long time ago. His mouth watered at the welcome sight, taking in the spread that laid before him.

The bread was accompanied by several slices of a strong-smelling cheese, one that Wilde recognised as the cheddar Zolf had picked up at the market the last time they had been able to properly shop for provisions. Unsurprisingly, coming from Somerset had left the dwarf with some very strong opinions about good cheese, which he had regaled both Wilde and the cheesemonger with as he picked out the specific cheddar that now adorned Wilde’s plate. Beside that, Zolf had sliced up one of the apples that he’d clearly picked from the tree in the house’s garden, arranged neatly around the other ingredients.

It wasn’t until Wilde had almost inhaled half of the meal that he noticed the note left on the plate. It was short but sweet – much like the writer himself. In fact, it only consisted of three sentences, scrawled as if in a hurry.

_Haven’t seen you in three days. Eat something and come downstairs. You need rest._

It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be. In fact, Wilde doubted he’d ever seen anything that so perfectly summed up Zolf. Stupid, stubborn, strangely caring Zolf.

If Wilde carefully folded the note up and tucked it into a breast pocket before heading downstairs, smile on his face and sarcastic remark on his tongue – well. No one had to know, did they?

  1. Soup



The scar on his face didn’t hurt quite as much as the pain in his chest. The sting of betrayal had cut deep, deeper than any blade – a comparison he could quite accurately make, given the constant pain radiating from the gash splitting his cheek in two.

It wouldn’t do to dwell on the events that had led to it. There was no use crying over spilt milk after all, and even less crying over spilt blood. Never mind the fact that whenever Wilde closed his eyes he could see the glint of a dagger coming towards him, feel anew the agony of flesh splitting under its cool touch. It was in the past, he had learned from his mistake, and it didn’t matter anymore.

Zolf had not asked. Partly because Wilde had said absolutely nothing since returning to the safe house. He had allowed himself to be examined, bore the indignities of the check without complaint or quip. Zolf’s brow had furrowed deeper and deeper as the silent moments ticked past, but he hadn’t said anything, just carried out what had depressingly become routine before shepherding Wilde down into the basement.

He had however come to visit. The two of them had a kind of unspoken pact that, during the quarantine, anyone who was possibly infected would be left well alone. They had learnt it the hard way, two safehouses ago, when a routine chat with a returning Harlequin had suddenly turned very, very sour. After that, quarantines generally were solitary affairs, unless a group were to return together. And given that Wilde’s companions had… not exactly been in a fit state to return with him, he had been expecting seven days of isolation. It hadn’t exactly been an enticing prospect, a week wallowing in self-pity, but he had been prepared for it at the very least.

It had been a shock then, when he’d heard the clank of metal feet on the stone stairs. Zolf’s new prosthetics had only recently been fitting, and the dwarf was still somewhat getting used to them, hence the heavy clanging noises ringing through the previously silent cellar. Wilde, who had been lying on the cot, sprang up from his position to get a better look. His mind was spinning with possibilities and anxieties – had they been attacked? Was Zolf now infected, and coming to see if he had an ally within the house? Had news of the others arrived from Rome, finally confirming if the last six months of mourning had been in vain or not?

As Zolf came into view, it became clear that bad news would not be the only thing he was bearing. He was moving slowly not due to his legs, but rather in an attempt to avoid spilling the large bowl of soup he had balanced somewhat precariously on a tray. Steam was curling up from the surface in silver spirals, and the smell of carrots and squash was wafting through the air. Zolf stepped off the final stair and the tray jolted slightly, prompting a quiet curse, but it didn’t seem as though much was spilt.

Wilde was silent as Zolf moved forward, gingerly placing the tray just in front of the anti-magic cell, within reach of the hatch he had insisted on building into the design. The dwarf’s expression was a mask of neutrality, but as Wilde watched, he could see concern leaking through the cracks. Zolf nodded once, silently, before turning quickly and retreating up the stairs, moving as quickly as his legs would allow him.

Wilde sighed and reached forward, tugging the tray towards him. It wasn’t until it slid through the hatch that he noticed the scrap of paper tucked just underneath the bowl. The edges were jagged, as though it had been ripped hurriedly out of a notebook, and when he unfolded it, Wilde took note of the scrawled handwriting. It was messier than the previous note, clearly rushed – as though Zolf had been debating whether to write anything at all, resolving only at the last minute.

 _Hope the mouth is alright. Thought soup would be easier on you. If it’s you in there_ – and here the note had been scribbled over, many attempts scratched out and covered with enough ink to make them illegible – _looking forward to seeing you again._

Despite everything - despite the ordeal he’d been through, the people he’d seen die, the pain radiating from the side of his face – Wilde managed the first weak, painful, and slightly lopsided smile he had managed in days.

  1. Stew



It wasn’t long before it was Zolf’s turn for a stint in quarantine. He had returned from what was supposed to be a scouting mission – just him, Commander Barnes, and two other Harlequins. The group had recently been forced to move to a new safehouse, travelling across the ocean to Damascus. Wilde, who had rather… mixed feelings surrounding the place, had volunteered to remain behind at the house while the others went out to explore the surrounding area. The idea was to establish the extent to which the infection had taken hold, to find out how safe they could be whilst hopefully learning something, _anything_ , about how this phenomenon worked.

From what Wilde could gather, it had not gone well. The group returned in the dead of night – or rather what remained of it. Barnes and Zolf had limped in, drenched of blood, and refused to say anything before retreating to the shack set up in the house’s garden, prepared and ready for quarantined. They had spent the week there while Wilde sat up in his room, working harder than he had in months. He had all but retreated into his work, drowning in paperwork and research in the faint hope that if he just kept at it, he wouldn’t have to think about his friends, sat in that cold dark place, alone and hurt and terrified.

The relief he felt at the end of those seven days was almost unbearable. It was all he could do to keep a straight face as he headed down to the quarantine hut for the final time, pulling back the bolt and letting the morning sunlight spill through into the barren room. Barnes was the first to leave, taking a deep breath as he stepped out into the fresh air and giving Wilde a weak smile as he headed back to the house. Zolf, on the other hand, was much less cheerful. Wilde was almost knocked off his feet as the other man pushed past, his broad shoulders making up for his short stature.

As it turns out, Zolf had been heading to the kitchen. Wilde discovered this fact on a rare but well- earned drink break – a short trip to grab a glass of water before returning to his work. The sounds of clanging pots and pans had apparently been deafened by the heavy oak doors and thick walls of the house, and so he was only made aware of the racket as he left his office and ventured downstairs, wincing with every loud bang or crash. Whatever Zolf was cooking, he didn’t sound particularly pleased about it.

This fact was only confirmed by the loud yell of “What?” that greeted Wilde as he pushed open the kitchen door. Zolf was standing in the middle of what could only be described as the eye of some culinary hurricane. Various different cooking implements – completely foreign to Wilde, who could barely boil an egg without setting _something_ on fire – were strewn throughout the room, and there were scraps of vegetables and off cuts of meat tossed carelessly over the counters. Zolf wasn’t exactly the neatest cook, but his experience on board a ship usually meant he kept his mess compact and manageable. This however… this was starting to worry Wilde.

His concern must have shown on his face although, judging by the furious look Zolf gave him in response, there was a chance it had come out somewhat patronising. Wilde attempted to clear the air.

“What are you making there, Zolf?”

“Stew.” Zolf grunted, returning to his work. Sure enough, there was a large pot atop the stove, presumably bubbling away merrily if the steam rising from the surface was any indication.

“I see…” Wilde said, desperately searching for the right words. He highly doubted that the stew was the course of all Zolf’s stress – cooking generally acted as stress relief for the dwarf, rather than its cause – but something told him that trying to probe deeper would not be met with even more hostility.

For once Oscar Wilde, poet, journalist, scourge of the upper crust and satirical genius was… lost for words. He stood in the doorway silently wracking his brain for something, anything to say. But before he could, Zolf stopped hacking away at a carrot as though it had offended him personally and turned, a strange mix of fury and anguish in his eyes.

“Look, if you aren’t going to be bloody useful, then you can turn around and piss off!” he growled, brandishing the knife at Wilde. “I’ve had a shite week, and the last thing I need is you standing there just _judging_ me like that. Let me do the one bloody thing I can do, alright!”

Wilde opened his mouth to retort, but shut it again without a word. This was not the time for rebuttals, nor soothing words. He turned on his heel and left, catching a muttered “Stew’ll be delivered when it’s done” from Zolf as he did.

Returning to his work helped distract him from the pain of dismissal. Zolf was hurting, and he was lashing out. That was all. Best not to dwell on it.

  1. Soda Bread



The knock at Wilde’s door came several hours later. It startled him out of the fugue he had fallen into, mindlessly staring at reports and trying desperately to decipher Barnes’ appalling handwriting. Somehow the man still wrote like he was on board a ship in the middle of a pretty ferocious storm. Wilde had managed to transcribe a decent chunk of the chicken scratch, but what he had managed to write hadn’t exactly been encouraging. The next village over had been badly hit, a gruesome mix of dead and infected populating it now. Apparently they’d put up a fight, attacking the scouting party when they strayed too close and killing the two Harlequins. Wilde had already drafted a letter to Curie, informing her of their demises.

Zolf had taken a decent amount of blows himself from the sounds of things, fighting back with only his glaive and, when that was wrenched from him, bare hands. There was no mention of him using any magic, something Wilde had taken note of. Zolf still hadn’t told him the exact details of what went down between the ex-cleric and his former deity, but from what he could gather, Poseidon’s power wasn’t exactly at Zolf’s disposal anymore. Wilde could sympathise of course – the gap where his magic used to be still ached within him – but he wasn’t about to start _that_ conversation any time soon. Especially not with Zolf in a mood like that.

The knock at his door, however, didn’t sound like it came from an angry person. It was hesitant, only just loud enough to be heard, as if whoever was making it wanted plausible deniability in case they wanted to scarper. Wilde smiled slightly, and moved over to the door, flinging it open quickly enough that the person standing behind it didn’t have enough time to escape.

He was met by a slightly sheepish looking Zolf, bearing a tray of food. The bowl of slightly steaming stew was no surprise, as Wilde had seen it in progress, but beside it was a plate of warm buttered bread. It didn’t look like an ordinary loaf, but the more Wilde examined it, the more familiar it seemed.

Zolf cleared his throat. “It’s uh… its soda bread. You mentioned it once.”

Wilde raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

“Yeah, you… you said you had it as a kid. In Ireland. Don’t think you called it that exactly, but I worked off what you told me and this seemed the closest.”

Wilde reached out and took a slice, biting into the soft, buttery crumb. It tasted like pure nostalgia, warm and comforting and _heavy_. Zolf’s cooking was much like the dwarf himself – no nonsense, straightforward, but filled with a warmth and comfort that was unlike anything else.

It wasn’t until he heard another awkward cough from Zolf that Wilde even realised he had been standing there, eyes closed, silently appreciating the food.

“Is it good then?” Zolf asked sheepishly.

Wilde smiled. “It’s wonderful. Thank you so much Zolf.”

The dwarf blushed. “Listen, I… I’m sorry about earlier. I was stressed, and I tried to work it out through the food but… I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

The look on his face, the sheer dejected guilt, was killing Wilde. Before he could stop, he found himself saying “Come and eat with me.”

Zolf looked almost as surprised as Wilde felt, but something behind his eyes seemed to brighten. He started down the stairs, calling out as he went something about fetching his own portion, and as Zolf disappeared, Wilde turned back to his office. He cleared away his desk, neatly piling papers in various stacks on the floor, and started setting up places to eat. By the time Zolf returned, bowl of stew in one hand and the rest of the soda bread loaf in the other, Wilde was sat waiting for him, a scarf thrown over the desk as an impromptu tablecloth, ready to eat.

Nothing had necessarily been fixed. The world was still ending, their friends were still missing. Zolf still didn’t know what was happening with his powers, and Wilde was still dealing with the loss of his. But for now, they could forget all of that. For now they sat, eating stew and soda bread and sharing a moment together.


End file.
